


A Hard Day's Night

by the_sock_index



Series: Sock's Rant Meme Fills [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub, Light BDSM, M/M, Sensory Deprivation, sub!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 00:51:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/680811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_sock_index/pseuds/the_sock_index
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: "Someone really enjoying being bound up helpless and gagged, and getting fucked hard enough to bruise."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Hard Day's Night

**Author's Note:**

> I asked for prompts on the [sherlock_rant](http://sherlock-rant.livejournal.com) meme [here](http://sherlock-rant.livejournal.com/6205.html?thread=48838973).

Sherlock carefully tests the ropes and they chafe just a bit—enough to make his wrists tingle, to make them rub deliciously against the hemp—and feels his mind, his _being_ sink below the surface, go offline. It feels good to let go, to let the intellect float away, recharge, while his transport is seen to.

He can’t see—John’s done the blindfold tight, no light gets in—and he’s completely bound. His wrists are tied securely behind him—right wrist to left elbow and left wrist to right elbow—and his legs are spread, his body bent at the waist.

Moist fingers—thick and calloused—touch him briefly on the inside of his thighs before sliding up and over his arse. He reflexively clenches already, anticipating the feel of them breaching him, preparing him, while he’s bent helpless and needy, as an offering to a god.

He shudders at the thought, and some part of him saves the thought—the image—to his hard drive for later reference, but before he can analyze it too closely he’s pulled from his mind once again as those fingers push into him slowly and firmly.

There’s no speaking, but he can hear John’s steady breathing, can hear the slick, wet sounds of the lube as it squelches between John’s fingers and as it’s pressed into and around him. John is nothing if not thorough, and Sherlock loves it, can’t get enough. He sinks even further.

The tube of lube makes a wheezing sort of sound-- _nearly empty, must remind John to replace it when he stops off at Tesco on his way home tomorrow_ \--as John squirts more of it out onto his hand. Sherlock tenses and squirms, because he can hear John using it to coat himself, to prepare his cock as he’s already prepared Sherlock.

He doesn’t really need this much prep—there’s something about the dangerous feeling of skin rubbing raw, chafing, that appeals to this side of him—but John tends to insist and Sherlock doesn’t put up much of a fight when it means that John will not hold himself back. He will drive into Sherlock hard, relentlessly, without pause or apology, and take what he wants.

And since that tends to be what Sherlock wants, it works out.

A sharp tug at his hair—a reminder to be present, a warning against drifting away—is all the notice he gets before he feels it (John) breaching and stretching him. Sherlock can picture it—the look of intense concentration and want on John’s face, his furrowed brows and the beads of sweat that gather at his temples, the way he licks his lips and how he grips his cock as he pushes firmly into the bound, helpless man beneath him. He pictures it so vividly, it’s as if he’s seeing it from outside of his body, this image also saved to his hard drive—automatically, every few seconds, to go with the thousands of others—and he groans quietly, the sound muffled by the gag in his mouth.

“That’s good,” John whispers, snaps his hips once, twice, until he’s completely sheathed. “That’s it exactly. Now hold still.”

Sherlock forces himself not to squirm, not to move or do anything to make this feeling stop, and is rewarded by John gripping his hips tightly—tight enough to bruise, hard enough to leave a visible reminder that Sherlock will pore over for days, take mental snapshots, press his fingers into the marks and relish the _painpleasure_.

John takes a deep breath, shifts a bit to get a better angle—Sherlock’s breath catches—and grips harder, digs his nails into the prominent hip bones that fit perfectly into his strong hands.

“That’s a good boy,” John says, voice gravelly. “Always so good like this,” he says, moving, pushing hard and slow but building and building. “Stay still and quiet and, if you do, I may let you come.”

Sherlock shudders and holds back a groan, hopes John will let him come, even if it’s not right away. _Especially_ if it’s not right away.

It’s going to be a long night.


End file.
